


Precious Things

by laurpas



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Bittersweet, Euthanasia, Gen, Grief, Grieving, non-graphic animal death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 09:14:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7216504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurpas/pseuds/laurpas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders grapples with love, loss, and cats.</p>
<p>PLEASE MIND THE TAGS AND NOTES BEFORE READING</p>
            </blockquote>





	Precious Things

**Author's Note:**

> I work in a vet clinic where I see a lot of precious cats, some healthy and some not. I also have a precious cat, who I have had for over ten years now, who is getting older. This is... My attempt at dealing with what was a bad few weeks of really sick cats and the fact that, sooner rather than later, I'll have to say good bye to my old girl too.
> 
> There is no graphic depiction of animal death in this piece, but I would consider it the main subject. This is a very bittersweet story- But it deals with some very heavy things. 
> 
> If you have any questions about some of the stuff, I'll be happy to answer them. Writing this, I think, made me feel lighter, and I hope it does something for you, the reader, too.

  It was the Week of Dead Cats or, perhaps more accurately, the Week of Cats About To Be Dead, Anders thought to himself with a grimace. He’d just picked up the print-out of Fluffy Atkinson’s bloodwork and her liver values were so high as to be nearly unreadable.

  As always the possibilities ran through his head, the steady  _ tick tick tick  _ of possible diagnoses given the information he had obtained.

_ Bile duct obstruction. Liver cell destruction. _

_   Liver disease. _

_   Liver  _ failure.

  He dropped the print-out back onto the little area of the counter he’d claimed for himself and ran a hand through his hair, sighing. A foot away his nurse gave him a sympathetic look, having seen the results and knowing them for what they were- A death warrant.

  “Perhaps…” He murmured, but then just closed his eyes. Blood did not lie, and neither did the cat resting limply in her owner’s arms, all skin and bones and yellowed eyes. He told himself that he had been expecting results like these, what with the jaundice. “I will go talk to Mrs. Atkinson,” he said and his nurse nodded. “Tell the girls up front to make sure not to call into the room and interrupt us.”

  Grabbing his white lab coat he shrugged it on, running a hand over his hair in an attempt to make himself look like the serious clinician that he was. Then he rose and wandered out of the clinic area and into the exam room where Mrs. Atkinson and Fluffy waited him.

  
  


  “Ugh,” he grunted as he unlocked the door to his small apartment and stumbled inside, balancing a paper bag of takeout with a plastic grocery bag, his work-bag, water bottle and keys. It’d been another late night at work and all he wanted to do was put his groceries away, get into some sweatpants, and then dig into his takeout while numbing his brain with some mindless game show on television. 

  He was stopped, however, when he heard a small chirrup and then the form of his cat appeared, her belly fat swaying a little as her plump body padded into view. Her eyes were wide and hopeful, happy to see her human finally home safe, and Anders gave her a small, tired smile by way of greeting.

  “Lady Whiskers,” he said, inclining his head graciously as she butted her head against his leg, meowing again. “I bring thee gifts,” he shook the arm holding the grocery bag slightly and from within came the sound of treats rattling around in their plastic container. Lady Whiskers’ eyes went wide and she reverently followed Anders as he moved further into the apartment, awaiting her reward for being such a good cat and waiting for her human all day.

  After dumping all of the bags he was carrying onto the kitchen counter Anders pulled out the little plastic container, opening it and pulling out one single treat. He could have waited, put away all of his other groceries, hell, could’ve taken the shower he so desperately needed, but instead he moved for those first, tossing the single treat and watching as Lady Whiskers moved to capture and then consume the little morsel.

  He just wanted to care for her, to treat her well. Just wanted to stand against his kitchen countertop, feet aching from the long day and stomach empty and grumbling, and watch his cat flop onto the carpet in delight, now looking up at him with wide eyes.

  “No more,” he said with a small smile, eyes crinkling at the corners, “You’re fat enough as it is- Maker help me if any of my clients saw you, after all that I lecture them about  _ their  _ pets being overweight.”

  Lady Whiskers gave him a small chirrup in response and he chuckled, leaning over and scratching her behind the ears as he moved to get upstairs and finally wash the grime of the day from his skin.

 

  “Idiot,” he murmured as he watched the cooking show on the television in front of him intently, scooping half-cold lo mein into his mouth and slurping it down noisily. “Should’ve used the fresh chicken. Who doesn’t use  _ fresh  _ chicken?”

  From up in her cat tree Lady Whiskers’ gave a consenting meow. 

  “Yeah, I know, what an amateur,” he continued, shaking his head. “Ah well, I wasn’t really rooting for him to go to the next round anyway.” 

  Up on her perch Lady Whiskers’ made a noise and then sat up, able to still nimbly leap from her cat tree and onto the arm of the couch that Anders was sitting on, despite her age, purring happily. She’d always been an affectionate cat, it was the one of the things he loved the most about her, and Anders happily set his food aside in order to pick her up and hold her in his arms, scratching her ears. 

  “Lovely girl,” he said in a low voice, “What a good kitty Lady Whiskers.” Lady Whiskers’ wiggled and arched in his arms, purring furiously, trying to get into the best position for her human to be able to scratch both her ears and at the base of her tail, easily the best spots. (Well, there was under her chin too, but she had long ago come to terms with the fact that her human only had two hands. A shame, but she loved him nonetheless.)

  “Oh yes,” he murmured, giving into his baby voice, “The best, the very best kitty.” Lady Whiskers purred, clearly in agreement.

  
  
  


  “Dr. Anderson,” the reception’s voice crackled over the phone in the back clinic, “Steven and Mr. Munez are in room two.” 

  “Thank you,” he replied, even as he frowned, drumming his fingers aimlessly against the counter. Two of the other nurses were in other rooms, and one of the ones available, Lirene, had already had to assist with another euthanasia that week. They had had to assist  _ him  _ with that procedure, but he still cared more about them having to do it again, than he did with himself. 

  It was his job, after all, and this was one of his pets. His  _ duty _ .

  “I’ll start getting a catheter together,” Lirene murmured as she appeared at his side, “Let me know when you want to go into the exam room.”

  “Lirene,” he said, “You really don’t need to-”

  “Come on Dr. Anderson,” she said, giving him a small smile, “You’ve already ugly-cried in front of me so many times, what’s one more?”

  Anders gave her an eye-roll but it was playful, even loving. “Okay, okay, but just don’t tell anyone how red and big my nose gets.”

  “On my mother’s grave,” she replied, a small twinkle in her eyes, before she turned serious again. “You ready to go do your exam doctor?”

_ No _ , Anders thought, even as he nodded. “Yes, let’s not make Mr. Munez wait any longer.”

  
  
  


  He is 17 and lying on his bed, eyes red and small but dry. Downstairs he can hear his foster father grumping about him but Anders can’t care less. 

_ A stupid cat,  _ Anders hears, not feeling anything. Not his foster parent’s words. Not the tacky feel of blood on fur, body limp underneath.  _ You’d think it was his baby, the way Anders carried on after we found him. _

_ Anders is sensitive dear, and moody, the agency warned us about that… _

_ He’s old enough to be a man now- Can’t go crying over dead cats or whatever.  _

_ He did love that cat. Wouldn’t let himself be placed if he wasn’t allowed to bring it. _

_ That  _ cat  _ tore up my leather couch and peed on my bed…  _

  Anders lifts his head slightly and pulls his pillow out from under his head, taking a deep breath before pressing it over his face and holding it there tightly. He can’t breath very well like this, but at least he doesn’t have to listen to his foster parents talk about him or Pounce like this.

  He can’t help but think of him now, though he’s cried so much by this point that he simply has no more left to give. It’s just that- Whenever he was sad or scared or angry it was always Pounce that would find him, Pounce that would curl up in the crook of his armpit, purring and licking the tears from Anders’ cheeks.

  He remembers once, as a young boy, a faint memory of himself sitting out in the grass with his mother. They’d managed to lure a stray cat to their home with the promise of wet cat food and little pieces of boiled chicken and were petting it. The cat, mangy looking, one eye missing, nevertheless purred contentedly under his mother’s skilled fingers and Anders’ less skilled but still loving hands. 

_ “Cats use purring to heal themselves,”  _ his mother had spoken softly, not looking up from the cat,  _ “Themselves and their kin _ .”

_ “How? Are cats magic?”  _

_   “Yes- All cats have at least a little magic in them.”  _

__ If Pounce were still here- but he isn’t. He would have been, that was if Anders hadn’t screwed up  _ again  _ like he always  _ did,  _ then Pounce wouldn’t have escaped the house, wouldn’t have trotted into the middle of the road without another care in the world. He’d be sitting there in the crook of Anders’ armpit,  _ his  _ rightful place, licking Anders’ salt streaked face and purring against him. Healing him.

  It is dark under the pillow, and when Anders’ stops to think he could almost feel the warm vibrations as if Pounce were still there against him.

  
  
  


  “She’s a shy one,” one of the ladies working in the shelter had commented as they noticed Anders peering into the little kennel, “Doesn’t do well with other cats or dogs or kids. Sweet with adults, but otherwise…”

  ‘Whiskers’ had been written on the little plastic card in front of the cat’s kennel and below it some facts about her. She was three years old, spayed, and needed to be on her own in a home. 

  “Shame,” the woman continued, “Don’t get too many people like that- You find an animal lover, they almost always already have some pets of their own.”

  ‘Hello, my name is Whiskers!’ Some thoughtful person had written a bio from the perspective of the cat on the front of the kennel and Anders found it delightful, even as he continued to half-listen to the shelter volunteer. ‘I’ve been here an awful long time, though I don’t really know why. I’m a lovely cat who just wants to spend all day cuddled up in your lap and letting you pet me.’ Mentally Anders snorted- Whoever had written this clearly knew cats, of course it would be Whiskers  _ letting  _ someone pet her.

  “But she is adoptable, yes?” He asked, still not looking away from the cage. Whiskers had woken up and was standing at the metal bars, head cocked and yellow eyes wide with interest. She chirruped, and Anders felt his heart grow a little. 

  He didn’t have to turn around to see the smile on the volunteer’s face, could hear it in her voice. 

  “To a good home, yes.”

  “I think I just might know one of those.”

  
  
  


  One syringe of propofol, to sedate, and one syringe of euthasol, to kill.

  He measured them both out carefully, fingers moving down the plunger of the syringe as he watched them fill. He placed them in a small metal tin and then filled out his controlled substances log book, hand steady, letters neat. 

_ Steven, owned by Carl Munez. 1.4 mililiters.  _

  Lirene leaned against the counter, arms crossed. They had prepared Stevie, and then left Mr. Munez alone, so that he might spend a few minutes alone with his cat. On Anders’ computer Stevie’s medical records had been pulled up, a scrapbook of a long, painful battle with cancer that was finally, mercifully, coming to an end. 

  “He said ten minutes,” Lirene murmured, “I’ll go see if he needs anymore, then come back to get you, yeah?”

  “Yeah,” Anders answered, flipping his logbook closed and then putting it back into the locked drawer where he kept all of his drugs, listening to the sound of Lirene’s sneakers shuffling on the ground and the swing of the door as she left the hospital part of the clinic and moved out to where the exam rooms were. 

  
  
  


  He is 23 and a veterinary assistant in a small clinic, tasked with helping with a euthanasia for the first time. It is an old dog, barely capable of standing, riddled with masses, and with a mouth that smells of death and rot but whose owners still hold on, petting her and kissing her like she were a fresh puppy. Had there been anyone else available he would not be doing this, but there is not, and so he is learning, finally, to help perform this procedure as well. 

  His heart is pounding and he can already feel his face getting red, the way it does when he is upset or anxious about something. He can’t fuck this up. He  _ can’t _ .

  “Anders,” the veterinarian, an old stodge of a lady, is looking at him, face pinched, “Relax. This will go fine.” 

  “Oh, I’m fine,” he lies, “Uhm, I just-”

  The veterinarian sighs, and it is obvious to him that she wishes it were someone else helping her with this, this most important thing. Someone who likes dogs a little more, perhaps. 

  “Talk to them about their options for what to do with the remains. Let them know the final cost and then bring the dog back. That’s it. That’s all.” He knows that that isn’t it, it isn’t all, but still he nods. Being given something concrete to do grounds him. He takes a deep breath and nods, and then goes into the room to talk to the clients.

  They are an old couple, and they tell him that they have had Cupcake for 15 years, ever since she was a puppy. Cupcake is lying on a thick blanket someone has thoughtfully laid on the floor and it hurts Anders’ heart to look at her. Mom is sitting on the bench in the room and Dad, though it likely hurts his joints, is sitting on the ground with Cupcake, petting her and occasionally whispering to her.

  Anders stutters a little but after seeing the kindness in Mom and Dad’s eyes he relaxes and gets through his spiel. They talk, decide on a plan, and at the end of it even Anders it petting Cupcake, his hand covered in drool.

  “I’m so sorry,” Mom, who has moved down to the floor to join everyone else, says after a moment. “This must be the hardest part of your job.”

  Anders blinks, surprised, and isn’t quite sure what to say in response. These people have come here, hearts heavy with sorrow, ready to say goodbye to their dog, Cupcake, that they so obviously love and yet they show concern for  _ him _ ?

  “Thank you,” he says, and he knows he is going to cry, once all of this is said and done. He doesn’t think of his foster father, or the bullies at school who teased him for crying when he was a kid. He thinks of the love in the room that he can feel, like something palpable. He thinks of the way that Cupcake’s Dad’s hands haven’t stopped petting her, one, how Mom is looking at Anders with misty eyes, one hand casually brushing at the dull fur on Cupcake’s thigh. 

  “But really…” He doesn’t know where it comes from, but suddenly words are coming from his mouth, and he knows he should just say ‘thank-you’ and leave to get the doctor but can’t stop himself, can’t let these people think that they are a burden. “...I am here for you. This is part of my job, an important part of it. An honored part of it.” He swallows, and pets Cupcake again, looking away. 

  “Would you like more time?” He finally asks.

  Mom and Dad look at each other and then each shake their heads. Anders rises to get the doctor.

  
  
  


  “You are clearly not just Whiskers but  _ Lady  _ Whiskers,” Anders said, chuckling as his new cat rolled around in his crumpled bed sheets, purring as she rubbed her grey floof against the satin. She’d abandoned the little bed he’d gotten for her almost immediately, apparently deciding that it was simply not good enough for her.

  “Mrow,” she replied, before moving onto her feet again and padding over to Anders. He hadn’t had another cat since Pounce, wasn’t sure that he had trusted himself, but it had been a week since he had brought her home from the shelter and he can’t imagine a life without her. It’d take a few days for her to adjust, and he still had to be careful to speak softly around her and not make too many loud noises, but…

  “Yours is clearly a proud and noble soul,” he continued, scratching her under her chin. “Only the best for my Lady Whiskers.” 

  He stood up, meaning to move downstairs to get some work done on his computer, finals were coming up, but then Lady Whiskers gave him such an expectant look and he could not help but scoop her up in his arms and carry her downstairs with him, promising himself that he wouldn’t let her hinder his work  _ too  _ much.

  
  
  


  Lady Whiskers was nine before she displayed any hint whatsoever that her age might be catching up to her. It probably helped that Anders took such good care of her (well, he fed her far too many treats but some of them were dental treats so that could be forgiven, couldn’t it?) and it was subtle, as such changes often were. 

  She would always greet Anders when he came home, but she seemed to pad over to him a little more slowly, and seemed much more content for Anders to pick her up and carry her around the house than before, her own personal chauffeur.

  One day, when the weather outside had got really bad he noticed that she resisted moving from her perch in the cat tree and when she had to that she moved rather gingerly. The next day he purchased her little joint supplements, flavored like treats for cats, and began giving them to her religiously, monitoring her, as he would any of his other patients, for increased signs of discomfort.

  “This is manageable,” he told Lady Whiskers as he brushed out her long, grey coat, the cat beneath him rumbling contentedly. “Old age is  _ not  _ a disease. And joint pain? Arthritis? There’s plenty of drugs to help with pain or discomfort, things we could use long term.”

  He nodded to himself, and smiled down at her. She was only nine, and still got along well. She got check-ups regularly and though they were still working on getting her to lose some weight she was over all a very healthy, very well loved cat. 

  When he stopped speaking Lady Whiskers looked up at him, eyes wide and bright. She meowed and Anders smiled down at her.

  “Yes I know, I love you too Lady Whiskers. Very, very much.”

  
  
  


  Behind him Lirene prepared the body for cremation and Anders got himself ready for his next room. It was supposed to be a new kitten exam- Someone had found a box of strays on the side of the road and decided to keep one of them, to make their own. Briefly Anders smiled, thinking of Stevie, now at peace, and this new kitten. 

  “Client reports pet is ferocious,” he murmured to himself as he read the notes that the receptionists had put into the pet’s medical record on the computer. “Loves to eat and chase things.” 

  In room four Mr. Munez had squeezed Anders’ hand after everything was done, smiling through a film of tears and had said, “Thank you. It’s been a long time since he hasn’t been in pain. Thank you doctor.”

  In room two, a family sat, one of the little girls carefully cradling the little plastic carrier her kitten, and it was  _ her  _ kitten she would inform Anders, carefully on her lap. It was her kitten, and she loved it.

  Anders looked at the name of the file as he began to get things ready and smiled when he saw the kitten’s name. 

_ Precious.  _

 

**Author's Note:**

> as always, i'll be there at laurpas.tumblr.com


End file.
